by Aya De León
But he slid next to her on the couch and grinned at her. “I gotta be honest,” he said. “It’s a little awkward. I can’t pretend that you got that shot for me.” He shrugged. “But I believe in women’s health care. And I’m honored to be in a position to reap some of its benefits.”
“What position is that?” she asked with a wry smile.
“I’m hoping it’s the first of many,” he said, and raised his eyebrows.
“Oh my god, so corny,” she said.
“You did the setup,” he said. “I just delivered the punchline.”
“Everybody’s a comic,” she said, and lay her head against his shoulder, eyes closed against the view of the wrecked hillside, sheltered in the bubble of their post-coital bliss.
* * *
When Doña Inez walked up to the house, the sun was low in the sky, and the pair of lovers sat on the now shaded front porch.
They introduced themselves and she let them in.
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything to offer you,” she said in Spanish. “Other than water, and I don’t really trust it.”
“No, doña,” Zavier said. “We actually brought you some water, plus batteries and canned food.”
She thanked them and motioned for them to sit on a pair of living room chairs.
Zavier thanked her for her time. “I wanted to speak with you, because I heard that you had been burying the dead,” he said.
“Absolutely,” she replied.
“What gave you the idea to begin burying people?”
“Nothing gave me the idea,” she said. “I just did what had to be done. If a woman went into labor, I would have attended to that, too. People died in the hurricane and none of the authorities could get here. You can’t leave dead people unburied. It’s unclean, both in a spiritual sense and in terms of sanitation.”
“How many people have you buried?” he asked.
“Eight,” she said. “But five of them were in the same family.”
“What happened to them?” Dulce asked.
“They lived in the next town down below,” Doña Inez said. “The hurricane ripped the roof off their house, but the car park was still intact. They huddled in the car for shelter. But then there was a flash flood. Water came fast because they were at the bottom of the hill. And it’s easy to get trapped in a car. The water shorts out all the electrical. You can’t get the windows or doors open. The pressure of the water means you can’t even break the windows. The next day, neighbors came to check on them and found the whole family. Mother, father, all three kids. Drowned in the car.”
Dulce recalled the flood at the storage unit. She had been at the bottom of a hill, too. The water came fast, faster than she would ever have thought.
“At first, they called me just to pray for the family, but then it became clear that no one was coming to handle the burials. I just said fuck it. For years we didn’t need the government or the hospital’s help to be born or to be buried. Although the government right now seems pretty committed to killing us.”
“You mean the US government?” Zavier asked.
“The US President or the governor of Puerto Rico,” she scoffed. “The first one doesn’t care about us, and the second one is ready to sell us down the river to impress the first one.”
Zavier scribbled furiously in his notebook. “You said you buried eight people?” he said. “Can you tell me about the other three?”
Doña Inez shrugged. “Word got around the barrio,” she said. “Other people died and so their families came to me. How is it possible that only thirty-four people died in this hurricane when I buried eight of them myself?”
* * *
After Zavier had asked all his follow-up questions, he stood. “Thank you so much for your time,” he said. “And really for all that you’ve done for the community. Can I have your permission to photograph the house, and the car in your yard?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “And by the way, that car out there? It’s not mine. I don’t know where it came from.”
As Dulce stood with him, Doña Inez stopped her.
“Hold on, amor,” she said to Dulce. “Keep me company a moment.”
“Of course, doña,” Dulce said.
The moment the door closed, the old woman looked directly at Dulce.
“This hurricane is a curse on many of us, but it came as a blessing to you,” she said.
Dulce’s mouth fell open.
“There are vultures coming,” Doña Inez said. “Those who have no respect for life, who plan to pick the flesh of Puerto Rico. Opportunists. Trump. Roselló. And many others. They plan to twist this disaster into a blessing for them. A payday, but that’s not you. You were supposed to be here. This was supposed to change you. Help you find your voice. Connect with your ancestors. You’re a city girl, but have a country spirit. You don’t need to live in the country, but you need to respect your country roots. You’re Dominican, right?”
Dulce nodded. “Your mami was from the country, no? She didn’t respect it. She couldn’t prosper in the city because she didn’t respect her roots. Honor your mami, but don’t follow her example. The city holds dangers for you, but only if you try to become something you’re not. Your path requires total honesty. And that boy out there? You should let him know how you feel about him. And you should tell him whatever you’ve been keeping secret from him. Secrets kill love. Trust me.”
“I don’t—”
“That boy loves you,” she said. “You need to trust that and open yourself up to him.”
“But I already—”
The old lady shook her head. “Not your body. Your heart. Don’t be ashamed of the stories your body carries. First you need to be known if you truly want to be loved. Don’t settle for the love where he can’t see all of you. Seeds need light to grow.”
Zavier emerged from the front yard. Dulce was still trying to catch her breath from what the older woman had told her.
“I got some beautiful photographs,” Zavier said. “Thank you so much for your time.”
“Of course,” Doña Inez said. “We were just talking about plants growing. There are more storms coming, but you can’t stop nature from growing back. The flora will grow back. Puerto Rico, too.”
“Can I quote you on that?” Zavier asked.
“You both can,” Doña Inez said.
* * *
On the way back down the mountain, the woman’s words receded into the surreal landscape. In the back of the van, Dulce’s skin hungered for Zavier. But they were surrounded by other reporters, and they had to play it cool. She settled for holding his hand, fingers entwined.
When they got back, it was past curfew and almost totally dark. After the driver dropped them at the hotel, Zavier stopped halfway along the path to the front door. He kissed her with such a passion that Dulce could hardly breathe, but beyond that, she didn’t want to. Wanted to breathe his skin, his eyes, his mouth, his hands.
Yet the words of the old woman came back to her. Tell him everything? Even how she’d left him in Santo Domingo to fuck a rich older guy? That her sex work days had lasted right up to hurricane Irma?
The old woman seemed so fierce, though. Burying the dead? And the car that flipped before it could crush her house? Dulce opened up her mouth to say that she wanted to tell him something, but one of their female roommates walked up.
“Did you hear that the mayor of San Juan wore a ‘NASTY’ t-shirt for TV interviews today?” the photographer asked. “Her latest shot in her battle with The Donald.”
“She’s battling him?” Dulce asked.
“Oh, you missed all this,” Zavier said. “Last week, The White House was calling Puerto Rico a ‘good news story.’”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dulce said.
“Right?” the photographer said. “The mayor fired back and called it a ‘people are dying story.’ She just wasn’t fucking having it, you know? By the way, looks like we’re flying out in the morning. They even got yo
u a ticket, Dulce.”
Dulce’s face split into a grin. Yes! She would go back to New York with Zavier. It was practically a sign. She didn’t need to tell him now what Doña Inez said. She would have her whole life to tell him.
She looked over at Zavier expecting him to be happy, too. But his face was a storm in itself.
“What’s wrong?” Dulce asked.
“This is bullshit that he wants to send us back to New York,” he said, and pulled out his phone as they climbed the stairs to the third floor.
“You might as well put him on speaker,” the photographer said, as the three of them entered the room. “We’re all listening to your end of the conversation.”
Zavier stabbed the speaker button and put the phone on the small desk. The other roommates were there, and the photographer got them up to speed as Zavier dialed the phone.
“This is bullshit, Dave,” Zavier said. “How are you going to send us home now?”
“You know the news cycle,” Dave said.
“There are so many developing stories here,” Zavier said.
“Zavier,” Dave’s voice sounded muffled through the connection. “When I sent you, I knew it was a risk because you were Puerto Rican, and you’re close to this. You said it would be an asset. And it has been. That Borbón story is fantastic. And we can run your Santería story tomorrow if we get it by midnight. But we didn’t send you to be a full-time Hurricane María correspondent for the next six months.”
“I’m not asking for six months,” Zavier said. “What about six more days?”
“No go,” Dave said. “During the president’s visit, the news was completely saturated. Come back to New York. Keep pitching me stories about the long-term recovery.”
“We need to meet with sources in person,” Zavier said.
“That’s only for right now,” Dave said. “But phone and internet service are being restored.”
“In the capital, maybe,” Zavier argued.
“Let me put it this way, Zavier,” Dave said. “You can continue to freelance there, but not on our dime. And we have a flight for the whole team to come back tomorrow. After that, you’re on your own. I gotta go. Let me know what you decide.”
“Man, fuck that shit,” Zavier said after they had signed off.
The photographer shook her head. “Zav,” she said, “it’s not sustainable. We need a real night of sleep.”
“Yeah,” the other woman said. “I need a shower that isn’t cold. Food that includes vegetables.”
“We can come back,” the Boogie Down guy said.
“I don’t fucking believe you guys,” Zavier said. “I need some air.”
He stormed out of the room. Dulce stood there for a moment, uncertain what to do, then turned and ran down the stairs after him.
It took her a moment to find where he’d gone, but he was out behind the hotel smoking with another journalist.
“You wanna talk?” she asked.
“I wanna smoke,” he said.
She nodded and took a drag off the cigarette.
“So, do you agree with them or what?” Zavier asked.
“I’ve been a journalist for all of three days,” she said. “I don’t think I’m qualified yet to have an opinion.”
Zavier put the cigarette to his mouth, and his hand shook. “I feel like I’m abandoning my people,” he said. “I can’t do it.”
His voice nearly cracked; he was clearly fighting to keep control.
“People here were fucking drowning while I was in New York eating organic vegetables,” he said. “I mean, I was worried, but I didn’t—I wasn’t really connected. It was like something I could turn on and off. One day I was worried about the hurricane that’s gonna hit Puerto Rico, and the next day, I was distracted by some goddamn athletic shoe sale. Am I gonna be part of the fucking problem now? I’m a fucking yanqui. I’ve got the privilege to pay attention or not. I’m like the goddamn enemy.”
“You didn’t choose to leave Puerto Rico,” she said. “That was your parents’ choice. And so what if you didn’t realize how bad this hurricane was going to be? Nobody fucking knew. You don’t get to kick yourself because you couldn’t predict the future. This is just–” She searched for the words. What was it Dr. Feldman had called it when she felt bad that she was the only one in her family that was a citizen? When it felt somehow disloyal if her life went well. “That’s some kind of survivor’s guilt.”
“It’s like I’ve become the colonizer,” he said. “I had this dream of returning here to write and retire or raise a family. Some fantasy shit and Puerto Rico could be the backdrop. When I think about PR, it’s always been about me. What can Puerto Rico do for me? And you wanna know one of the things that ran through my head when I got assigned to come here? ‘This could make my career.’ My career? My fucking career? People are dead, Dulce. More people than they can fucking bury. The least I can do is stay here and tell the fucking story.”
“No, baby,” she said. “It’s not like that at all.” At this point, she wasn’t just saying it for her ticket off the island. She really cared about him, and she could tell that he was hurting. “You are going to tell the story. But this is about the long view. You need to recharge yourself. It’s like they say on the airplane. Put on your own mask first.”
“I see these guys here who wake up every fucking day and are chopping their people out of disaster with machetes,” he said, and stomped the cigarette out on one of the cobalt blue bricks in the street. How am I supposed to go back to New York and sit in pitch meetings in midtown offices with white editors?”
“Because your people need you there,” she said. “Without you, nobody will be pitching stories about Puerto Rico after next week.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said. “Because when I get on that plane, I feel like I’m turning my back on my people.”
His face was crumpling, and as rigidly as he held his body, it wasn’t rigidly enough. The moment she put her arms around him, he collapsed. He folded in her arms and sobbed.
Dulce felt utterly beyond her depth. She couldn’t believe he trusted her like this. Part of her thought he was weak for crying. But what the fuck? He’d seen his homeland half-destroyed, helped count the dead, and was supposed to stay dry-eyed?
And there was another part of her, a larger part, that was honored by his tears. That part could tell that she was falling in love with him. Had already fallen. So of course he could show this side of himself. Because this trip, the love they had made on Doña Inez’s back porch, the story they had written together, had bonded them for life.
Chapter 26
Dulce was on a plane when the Borbón article finally went live. She and Zavier were flying over the Atlantic Ocean, his head on her shoulder. Her body was exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep. Some part of her was just completely shocked and dazed.
Yet there was a ramped up feeling of anticipation on the plane for when they began the beverage service. Dulce asked for bottle after bottle of water. More than she could actually drink. She was hoarding it. Why? She was headed to the US where there would be more. But what if the plane was delayed for some reason? She knew it was irrational, but some part of her was determined never again to be without drinking water.
It was all so disorienting. She couldn’t quite accept that the danger was past. And part of the disorientation was knowing that things were getting better for her personally, but things weren’t getting better for the people of Puerto Rico. “We’re dying here,” the mayor had said. And—like Zavier—she felt guilty or selfish or ashamed that her own life had somehow been blessed by this tragedy. She had left the mainland on the run from her boyfriend. Now she was returning with a real boyfriend. One who wasn’t married to someone else. He knew all about her past. They had written an article together for the New York Times. Jerry and Jimmy were dead, and she could come back home. She would move back in with her family, but maybe she could figure out how to turn this one article into more opportunities. Z
avier would help her. Maybe . . . at some point . . . she would move in with Zavier. But she was getting ahead of herself.
So she flew from San Juan to Miami with no luggage, but her head rattling with images and sense memories: glassy-eyed corpses, the full press of Zavier’s body on her and in her, and the determined jaw of the old woman in the hills.
* * *
In the Miami airport, they landed with several zero battery devices and the expectation that their story was already online. But they didn’t have time to stop and charge anything. Their connecting plane to New York was taking off soon.
The two of them hustled through the airport. The terminal looked surreal to eyes that hadn’t seen fluorescent lights in over a week. Hadn’t seen the trappings of consumerism for even longer.
“It’s so fucking weird,” Dulce said. “All this shit I took for granted. Fresh water. Food you can buy. Electrical outlets that work.”
“Yeah, but we don’t have time to stop,” Zavier said. “Maybe I’ll be able to charge my phone on the plane. You ever notice how the flight from JFK to Miami has all the good food and the good outlets. But the flight from Miami to the Caribbean is the janky-ass old plane? First world versus third world?”
Dulce shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve flown enough times.”
“I can’t wait to look online,” Zavier said. “Just see what kind of traffic the story is getting. How many hits. Check my social media accounts.”
He grinned and held her hand as they strode across the airport. When the JFK gate was in sight, it was a level below, down an escalator. Dulce looked over the edge of the mezzanine to see that the status was “boarding,” but there were a lot of people in line.
The New York passengers were glossy and fashionable. Dulce looked down at her stained tank top.
“You think I have time to buy a new shirt?” she said.
He nodded and they stepped into a brightly lit airport concession and Dulce was suddenly confronted with choosing between ten different types of shirts. Did she want a pink one that said Miami in rhinestones? Gray with a green and orange gator? Finally, she found one that was blue with a simple palm tree outline. It was an XL, but she bought it anyway, digging a few crumpled bills out of the bottom of her water wallet.
